Patrick likes sleeping with him. Not in the crude sense of the phrase, not just fucking, but lying on the same bed, too. Jon sleeps on his back most nights, with his arms stretched out next to him and his legs spread wide. He’s got a restless sleep, especially now that he’s trying to cut back on THC. Sometimes he’ll twist and turn until Patrick gets on top of him, gets his face on Jon’s neck and his stomach against Jon’s side, his knee between Jon’s legs. Sometimes Patrick has to grab Jon’s arms with his hands and press them against the mattress to make Jon stop. Then, only then, Jon settles. His chest’s movements grow slower, more paced. He hums some intelligible shit, lets out a deep breath, and falls asleep. More often than not, Patrick stays like that all night.
He likes it. It feels good, being needed. Patrick had never felt needed outside a pair of skates until he met Jon. Jon makes him feel like he’s a real person, with a real life. He isn’t, but with Jon he can pretend.
In the morning, Jon scoffs at the marks Patrick’s fingers left on his forearms from holding onto him all night. He scoffs, but he doesn’t question it. Anyone else would. Jon never does. He just fucking scoffs. He makes it so easy. Patrick props himself on his elbows so he can look down at him. Pale light’s just started to pour into the room, and it makes Jon’s face look soft.
“Good sleep?” Patrick asks.
Jon lets out a yawn. “Yeah. I’m sleeping with a…” His jaw cracks on a second yawn and Patrick can’t help but smile. “’m sleeping with a cat, apparently. Scratches me all night.”
“Uh yeah?” Patrick drawls, and makes brrr noises into Jon’s face until Jon clicks his tongue and pushes him off to the side. “Ah, c’mon. I could get me a tail. Or some ears for you. Don’t say you wouldn’t look so fucking cute—”
There’s a hand against his face. A big, strong hand, callused and rough. It still smells like sex. Like jizz. Just a sniff is enough to get Patrick worked up. Jon sits up and rubs at his eyes. “It’s fucking 6 am, eh, Kaner. Turn it all the way down.”
“Alright, boss man.” Patrick says, voice muffled from under Jon’s hand. Then he kisses it, softly, once, twice. Then he bites it. Jon yanks it back with a yelp, and the next thing to hit Patrick’s face is a pillow. “Ow, hey.”
“Ow my ass.” Jon grumbles.
“I will, baby. I’ll ow your ass any day—” The pillow hits him again. Patrick grabs it and flings it towards the opposite side of the room. They both watch as it splats against the wall and falls to the floor with a satisfying poof.
A couple of seconds pass where Jon’s just looking at him, like he’s deciding whether or not he’ll do exactly that, but in the end he doesn’t. Instead, Jon leans down and kisses Patrick’s forehead the way he’s started doing ever since he realized Patrick would let him. At first, Patrick faked disgust. Chirped Jon a lot. Called him cheesy. Now, though, he doesn’t give a shit. He’s tired. He’s too fucking tired. He’s tired of denying himself things.
A hand rests on the side of his face, Jon’s thumb rubbing soft over his cheekbone. “We got fucking camp today.” Jon murmurs against his forehead. Patrick wraps an arm around Jon’s back and starts scratching the tiny hairs behind his neck. The cut’s short as hell now. Makes him look like a fucking lawyer in a porno. “We’re old, eh?”
“Speak for yourself.” Patrick says. He wishes the grin wasn’t so apparent in his voice. “I’m young and beautiful, I mean, look at my hair.”
Jon laughs. The sound alone makes Patrick’s insides light up like a bonfire. The sheets rustle as Jon gives Patrick’s hairline a mocking kiss and gets up.
It’s not like Jonathan’s ashamed, because he definitely isn’t. He’s done a lot of soul searching on this, and the shame doesn’t come from him, it comes from others. For sure, he’d internalized a lot of stuff he had to work through and sort out in his head, but he can’t do the same for other people. There are times he wishes he could, even though his therapist’s made it very clear it’s a waste of energy. Physical, emotional, spiritual. Overall, a fucking pointless course of action. Jonathan agrees. So he started listing statements in his head, stuff he is sure of, stuff he can trust to be true:
One, Pat’s his person. Two, he’s not ashamed of that. Three, he can’t control how other people feel about that. Four, how they feel doesn’t fucking matter.
Four’s a bit shaky, still, but he’s working on it. Like right now.
Right now he’s working on it. Jonathan’s watching Pat gesture on and on to Brinks about some fucking pointless stat, he’d bet, and he’s trying not to wonder if someone’s noticed him staring. He’s sitting normally, in his stall, not doing anything strange in particular, just looking at Pat while he takes off his skates. Maybe that’s already too much, though. Jonathan used to be so fucking paranoid of looking at Pat in the lockers, so afraid he’d tell on himself, on them.
They had these characters they played at the UC, who argued and yelled at each other. Sometimes they’d play these characters for so long they forgot how to act everywhere else.
Those weren’t good times. Jonathan sighs. Pat’s fucking killer in his underarmour, he really is.
“Taze, tell me something.” Shawzy quips to his right, and Jonathan hums noncommittally. He congratulates himself on not jumping out the bench. “Would you rather fuck a horse or let a horse fuck you?”
Despite everything, that makes him laugh. “Fucking hell.”
“Not in real life! Just a little what if scenario.”
“No little what if, ya’ freak, that’s not happening.”
“But what if the horse gave you the choice.” Shawzy insists, and they both turn to watch Saader let out what can only be described as a booming fit of giggling.
“Horses don’t fucking talk. How could he even ask?” He says between snorts. Shawzy throws a tape ball at him and it hits him square on the nose. “Hey, what!”
“That’s not the point. You know, this could’ve been an interesting conversation.”
“About—” Saader coughs, and has to take a second before repeating, “About Jonny having sex with a horse?”
Jonathan lets them take over whatever the hell that was and looks back at Patrick, only to find him looking back with an amused expression on his face. He mouths ‘horsefucker’, and Jonathan rolls his eyes. ‘horse’, he enunciates. No matter how long it’s been, making Patrick Kane the II turn red as he bites down his grin is always a rush to the fucking groin.
“I can’t, I fucking—I can’t.” Patrick hears himself say, and moan, too, this fucked up broken thing that echoes out of his throat like it was punched out of him. The backseat’s hard leather scratches his legs and rubs dry against his knees, but he doesn’t care. No, Patrick just feels the heat.
He feels the warmth of Jon’s skin against his mouth as he pants into the crease of his neck. He tastes the sweat and chlorine that’s gathered there, bittersweet on his tongue. They’re still wet from the pool, and Jon’s hands slide across his back like it’s tile until he remembers to use his nails. It hurts. It hurts so fucking good. Patrick’s hips jackrabbit faster, faster, faster, out of their own volition and Jon chokes out a groan. He’s got one foot flat against the frontseat’s headrest, knees bent completely over Patrick’s shoulders, and Patrick, not for the first time, thanks God for yoga.
The sound of their skin slapping together sounds obscene in the car’s silence. Outside the afternoon’s sky turning pink, and there’s music playing on the other side of the house, barely audible. Inside the car, though, there’s nothing but the smell of lube, chlorine and leather. Patrick’s got no clue how he hasn’t come yet. He’s trying to slow down, enjoy the tightness around his dick, make it good for Jon, too, but he can’t. He can’t. It’s as if he’s a man dying at the desert who just caught sight of a water stream.
He kisses up Jon’s jaw to his ear, then his cheek. “I can’t.” Patrick repeats, voice hoarse.
Callused hands take hold of his face, and then he’s being kissed, almost as obscenely as they’re fucking, spit everywhere. Jon’s tongue licks at the roof of his mouth and Patrick snaps his hips so hard, it makes Jon’s head hit the window.
“Shit, are you—”
“Shut up.” Jon interrupts. “I’m fine. Just fuck me, come on.”
The pressure’s in his balls is unbearable. They feel like a rubber band, stretched to the max, held by prayer alone. Patrick grabs Jon’s hair with one hand, sticky fingers be damned, and fucks in as deep as he can until Jon’s panting against his lips. He’s closed his eyes and his lashes are stark dark against his cheekbones. He’s so fucking beautiful.
And he likes Patrick. Jon might even love him.
“Yeah, that’s it.” Jon croaks out. One of his hands snakes its way down between their bodies to fist his dick and start pumping. “I’m right with you. I got you. Come on, Peeks, fill me up, babe, fuck.”
Patrick bites Jon’s neck to muffle his moan, and comes. He comes, and shakes, and comes, and Jon’s legs are shaking too when he finally stretches them out. They both wince when Patrick’s dick slips out. He takes out the condom and ties it up, grateful that he’s able to do it without looking. He drops it inside a plastic bag under the seats and takes a deep, deep breath. When he looks at Jon, Jon’s already looking at him.
They lie there, on the backseat of Patrick’s Hummer, tangled together, breathing loudly and looking at each other.
To think Patrick used to dread afterglows. If he wasn’t out of bed the moment the girl was finished then it’d be right after. Now, though, he’d be fine with not moving for a very long time.
“Did you come?” Patrick asks after a while. The answer’s on his stomach, but he wants to hear Jon sputter about it.
“Fuckin' hell, are you serious.”
“I dunno, Jonny, I was busy filling you up.”
In less than a second, Jon has him on a headlock. “What was that? Big guy?” He taunts, and Patrick unsuccessfully struggles against him for a few seconds. He whacks Jon’s arm again, but Jon stays immovable. “Get me some fucking wet wipes, Kaner.”
“Ay ay, cap.” Patrick concedes. Jon huffs and gives him one saliva-filled kiss on the temple before he lets him go. “Charming, thank you.”
“Go cry about it.”
It’s such a stupid thing to say Patrick can’t help but blurt out a laugh. He reaches across the front seats for the glove compartment box and tries not to like it too much when Jon takes the opportunity to slap his ass. “Cut it out.”
Patrick throws the wipes at his face and fakes a swoon when Jon catches the packet before it hits him.
“So, it took us about an hour to get more beer from the store which is like, ten minutes away. Yeah, boys are gonna eat that.” Jon comments off-handledly as he rips out a wipe.
“Of course they will. We also had to look for a toilet because you had explosive diarrhea.”
Jon stops, closes his eyes like he’s hurting, and tries to shove his wipe into Patrick’s laughing mouth.